


However Many Lies I Tell

by summerstorm



Category: Wild Child (2008)
Genre: F/F, Future Fic, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living with Poppy-the-fashion-designer is not really very different, as far as Kate remembers, from sharing a dorm with her at school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However Many Lies I Tell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [presentpathos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/presentpathos/gifts).



> For present_pathos, who asked for this pairing with the prompt you made a rebel of a careless man's careful daughter. Thanks to Jenn Caelelen for beta. Title from Ryan Adams.

After their last year at Abbey Mount, there's university; Poppy goes back to the US for the length of her four years as an undergrad, and Kate is accepted into Cambridge, and Drippy moves to London, and Josie and Kiki wind up in Scotland. They stay in touch for a while, phone calls and texts that appear to be enough until they start happening less and less. An unsent text makes for a better Facebook status update, a random call isn't significant enough to take up voicemail space, an e-mail goes unanswered.

In other words, they lose touch.

Kate expects it; all of it. It's — well, honestly, it's nothing short of inevitable.

*

Moving to London isn't really planned, not in the way Kate often plans things. Moving to London is not a bad idea, not at all, not when she's got an internship with a huge property development company and chances to get a job there if she does, but it's also a quickly-made decision, largely based on the fact that Kate's always wanted to live there, to live in London, ever since she was a little girl.

She goes there to look at places in June, and she's killing time on the train back home when she winds up looking at Poppy's Facebook at a moment where her status says, _[insert city], here I come!: Paris, London, Milan? A tiny town in Switzerland? Grab a world map and toss a dart at it? Who's a better decision maker than I am? Choose for me._

Kate thinks, _That's a normal day in Poppy Moore's head, pick a city and jump on a plane_ , and she thinks, _Everybody's better at decision-making than you are_ , and she thinks, _Think of your life as a dress, Poppy, and the world map as a dress pattern_ , and then she shudders because she practically could hear Mrs Kingsley in her head right there.

She likely only does it because every other reply she's come up with is significantly worse. Before she knows it, she's typed in and sent, 'I'm moving to London next month. I'm open to a roommate.'

Before she can think better of it, Poppy, in a move that reminds Kate that she never changed mobile phone numbers and Poppy could have rung her at any time, sends her a text that says, 'Are you really? I'm open to being it!'

There's not a cell in Kate's body that sees that one coming.

She's even more surprised when her mum backs the request before Kate's even off the train. Kate knew her mum liked Poppy—she even once called her the crazy daughter she never got to have—but she hasn't seen her in _years_.

And so that's how they reconnect. By moving in together.

*

Living with Poppy-the-fashion-designer is not really very different, as far as Kate remembers, from sharing a dorm with her at school; she's messy and forgetful and occasionally Kate has to teach her how to do basic chores despite the fact that Poppy spent four years away at college with nobody to help her through it.

"That's an assumption," Poppy says. "An incorrect one. I had an RA, and surprisingly patient roommates. You're not the only good person on the planet, Kate. I had plenty of help."

"And you paid someone to do your laundry," Kate ventures, not really expecting Poppy to shrug like it's a perfectly normal thing to do. "You paid someone to do your laundry?"

"It wasn't just my laundry," Poppy says. It doesn't make things any better. "I mean, I didn't have, like, a service staff or anything. But I did do a lot of fashion favors. People were happy to return them."

Kate can't say she's surprised, just like she's not surprised the only major difference she does note is the amount of fabric around the house—the drawings just add to Kate's own building designs—and how Poppy now seems to keep crazy hours.

The fabric is fine. It's not always a good look, especially when Poppy's working on more than one thing at a time, but it's fine.

The hours bother Kate a little. Poppy's learned not to be loud, but she doesn't seem capable of closing the door without slamming it, and sometimes she comes in at 3AM and it's _impossible_ to sleep through the clicking of the locks and the clicking of the heels and the clicking of Poppy's keys on whichever surface she chooses to grace with them.

Two weeks in, they get into a fight over it; over both of those things, in fact, although Kate's smart enough to know the fabric's just the catalyst.

"I can't _find it_ ," she yells, grabbing what looks like a sheet of purple tulle and throwing it across the living room. It's not that heavy, of course, so it lands on the coffee table rather than on Poppy's face. Poppy's sitting on the kitchen table. "It was here yesterday, and I can't bloody _find it_ , and you know why I can't find it? Because this place is a _shambles_ ," and she's starting to cry, and it's all sleep deprivation, she _knows_ that, sleep deprivation and how this internship is _amazing_ and she wants to be perfect for it and she keeps _messing up_ , "and I haven't slept properly since you moved in here and I haven't the fucking foggiest idea where I put it because I can't _think_ with you strutting around like you have to _announce_ your presence in the middle of the fucking _night_."

Poppy stays silent; she looks like she's about to say something a time or two, but then she just lifts a finger to her mouth and bites her nail and lets Kate have at her. It's a fantastic strategy. Kate feels guilty as soon as she gets a breath in.

"Oh, and now I've got to feel bad because I'm not _thrilled_ when you wake me at four in the morning."

Poppy bites her lip. "I didn't say anything like that."

"You didn't say _anything_ ," Kate snaps.

"I don't _know_ , what do you want me to say? I told you I kept odd hours. It's my job. I can take off my shoes before I come in, if you want. I can get you earbuds?" she suggests. At Kate's glare, she quickly amends, "Not that it's—it's my fault. It's definitely my fault."

"It's just—" Kate says, and it's really not about the fabric, because this time she just drops down on the floor and she's thankful for it, for the way her fall is cushioned by fake fur. "I'm not used to it. I lived in a dorm for years. I shared a _room_ , a single room with somebody else. I could just open my eyes and make sure whoever walked in was someone I knew, but with you—I recognize your heels. I hear them _all over_ , and I can't tell what you're doing until you stop making noise, and it drives me _mad_."

"Okay," Poppy says, nodding in acknowledgment, "okay. I hear you. We'll talk about this, okay? We'll come up with something. Just calm down. I'll help you find that paper."

*

Two nights later, she wakes up to the clicking of the lock, but there are no heels.

It's even worse than hearing Poppy go about the flat.

Poppy looks at her odd in the morning, but she doesn't remark on the shadows underneath her eyes like she did last week, last Sunday. She's probably scared to get into another fight.

Maybe they're not a lost cause. Maybe they just forgot how to live with each other.

Kate offers a small smile.

*

Poppy turns in early three days in a row, and sets the espresso machine going before leaving in the morning, timed just right for Kate to wake up to the scent of coffee.

Friday, while Poppy's out on some meeting with a shop about carrying her line, Kate finds a recipe on the Internet for that gingerbread apple pie Poppy's mentioned a few times recently and spends two hours in the kitchen trying to get it right, thinking the whole while about structurally sound disorganization and the fact that her weekend is free, and Monday she gets to sit in on a presentation by the architect she's shadowing, and answer questions on her behalf.

It's a really good day.

Poppy's predictably late, and she forgets to take her heels off this time, but this time they don't jump about; they come straight into Kate's room, and then she can hear Poppy take them off, the clack of the shoes hitting the carpet, the slide of her dress over her head.

Poppy sits on her bed next, but it doesn't end there—she pulls the covers over herself and wraps an arm around Kate's waist and says, "Just me," and that's—that's perfect. Suddenly Kate feels relaxed again, loose and ready to go back to sleep. She never feels this way when Poppy just goes to bed. To her own bed. "Your hair smells like ginger," Poppy murmurs as she lies down.

"Check the kitchen," Kate says. Poppy's weight shifts away, and Kate reaches back to grab her wrist and keep her there. "In the morning."

"Okay," Poppy says softly, and buries her face in Kate's shoulder.

*

Kate wakes up in a tangle of limbs and blankets, with Poppy drooling on her arm and Kate's hair caught on a long thread necklace that's hanging upwards from Poppy's neck.

"You could have strangled yourself with this," Kate tells Poppy, who's just stirring awake.

"Hm," Poppy says, "will be more careful next time," and goes back to sleep.

Next time Poppy's eyes open, Kate just says good morning.

*

Poppy means it.

Every time she comes home late, she walks around for a bit, and then she goes to sleep in Kate's bed.

It solves Kate's sleeping trouble, for the most part.

It also brings back Kate's awful, ill-advised schoolgirl crush on Poppy. Sleeping with her isn't hard—it's not new, anyhow, and if Kate can remember what it was like to look at Poppy and want to kiss her, she can also remember how easy it became, after some time, to compartmentalise when Poppy climbed into her bed and talked her ear off about Freddie, or just needed a hug, or decided her own bed had too many wrinkles and Kate's was tidier and nicer to sleep in.

But it's different now, too; Poppy hasn't got a boyfriend, and there aren't another three girls in their room. Poppy knows Kate likes girls now; she knew back at Abbey Mount, too, but she only found out after they were comfortable enough around each other that it didn't really change anything in terms of awkwardness.

Kate figures, though, it's not _that_ different. It's still her with the feelings and Poppy with the easy friendship, the big fluffy wall.

And Poppy only sleeps with her as to not scare her; as soon as Poppy's got a normal night, she'll go back to her bedroom. It's why she has one in the first place, why there's a bed in it.

Kate is more than all right with that.

*

Poppy's never been much of a reserved person. She's never kept a distance. Kate's not sure why she expects her to this time.

This one Sunday night, they're watching some reruns of _Law and Order_ and Kate's beginning to miss the basic plot, which is generally a sign she's ready for sleep.

"I should head off to bed," Kate says, and yawns.

"Yeah, me too." Poppy bites her lip. "Can I—would it be weird if I just slept in your bed? Even though it's not late at night? I know it's—"

"No," Kate says, "that'd be—" lovely "—that'd be all right."

*

It's funny, how you can think about something for hours, for days, and never expect it to happen. And even be surprised when it happens.

Maybe it's that Kate mostly thinks about kissing Poppy in the morning, in bed, when Poppy's just a few inches away and she looks peaceful and it's easy to tuck her stray hair behind her ear and think how it would be just as easy to brush her lips to Poppy's—to let her know, let her carry the weight of knowing.

It's not something she thinks about when she's sitting at the drafting table, staring at her sketches and trying to pinpoint what's wrong. Poppy's in the kitchen, snacking on Kate's black chocolate bars as she hops around a headless mannequin wearing a wedding dress. It's a recipe for disaster, if you ask Kate, but as usual nobody has, and anyway she's busy fixing a plan.

"I think I'm done," Poppy announces, and Kate looks back to realise that, yes, as a matter of fact, if Poppy changed one more thing about the dress, Kate might just cry.

"That is beautiful," Kate says, awed, and Poppy grins.

"Isn't it?" she says, and walks over to Kate, hopping a little along the way. "How are your sketches going?"

"Stuck on _what is wrong with this I cannot tell_ ," Kate says.

Poppy hums thoughtfully for a few seconds, then orders Kate to stand up.

"What?"

"Just stand," Poppy says. She makes it sound reasonable. It's a gift. A horrible gift that makes Kate comply and rise to her feet and face Poppy.

"What?" she repeats, and Poppy looks her up and down, nods, and goes on her tiptoes to kiss her.

Kate's eyes widen, and she doesn't get to respond before Poppy pulls back and says, "Sorry, that was—I couldn't help it. I didn't plan that. By the way. I mean it's not the first time I've thought of it but— You're smiling."

Kate bites her lip. "Yeah," she says unhelpfully. "That's not going to help with the building."

"I'm sorry," Poppy says, not looking very apologetic at all.

"But we can celebrate your dress," Kate says, and returns the kiss.

*

The next morning, when they're making breakfast, Poppy says, "You know, it makes a lot more sense to me for us to sleep together naked. Is that weird? It felt more natural than usual last night. We should have taken our clothes off ages ago."

Kate's not touching that one. She would if Poppy weren't completely serious, but Poppy is, and that's a whole can of worms Kate doesn't feel ready to open.

Kate's not touching that one until Poppy adds, "Was that just me?" and Kate feels obligated to say that, no. No, it wasn't.

*

It keeps happening, them sleeping together, in the metaphorical sense, and it's brilliant, and Kate sleeps so much better until she catches herself not mentioning it to her mum when she calls.

It seems like the kind of development she should be informed of. Sort of like, hello, mum, I'm dating my roommate now. It shouldn't be that hard to just say it.

"Well, so you're not lying," Poppy says when Kate mentions that, ever optimistic.

"I'm lying by omission."

"So just tell her. What could she possibly say that she hasn't already?" Poppy points out, and all right, Kate can admit she's got a point.

*

It's not really such an awful prospect after that, telling her mum. Her mum knows she's gay, and never seemed to have a problem with it. Kate comes from money, but her parents are the black sheep of their family, and also they sort of deserve to know what's going on underneath the roof Kate convinced them to pay half of the rent for.

"So, all right, mum, don't have a fit," Kate says.

"Have I ever?" her mum says. She's got a point.

"Right," says Kate, "so you remember how Poppy moved in with me?"

"Yeah?"

Kate steels herself.

*

Poppy gets home a bit after dinner; she had a fitting earlier, and halfway through that she texted Kate about putting together the outfits for the actual shoot, too, as whoever was in charge had come down with the flu and she knew the clothes already. Kate honestly expects her to run later than she does.

First thing Poppy does, before she even takes off her shoes, is head for the kitchen and kiss Kate on the mouth. "Hello," Poppy says, trying on a truly horrid British accent.

"Hey," Kate says. She rests a hand on Poppy's hip for a moment and returns the kiss. "No celebratory food and drinks tonight?"

"Turkey sandwiches behind the scenes," Poppy says tiredly, wriggling her fingers before her face to mock the lack of romance in her statement.

"Glamourous," Kate agrees around a mouthful of leftover cheesecake. She watches Poppy toe off her shoes in the general direction of the front door, leave her jacket and bag on the couch, and flimsily walk over to the kitchen, taking a stool opposite Kate's at the kitchen island. "So I rang my mum and told her you're not quite _just_ my friend."

"You did?" Poppy says quickly, all shock. "What'd she say?"

"She aptly summed up my message by gleefully declaring we're living in sin," Kate says.

"Your mom _said_ that?" Poppy says, gaping.

Kate suppresses a smile, unsuccessfully. She nods to confirm. "My mum also said to high-five you when I saw you next, but I thought I'd rebel and just say hello and offer you some pie."

Poppy giggles.


End file.
